


lay me down, let me drown

by Rhycake



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blood and Gore, Corpses, Eventual Happy Ending, God of Fear strikes again, Gods and Deities, Gore, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Psychological Torture, anyway, blood time, my god this one is a doozy, unless...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28981230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhycake/pseuds/Rhycake
Summary: “I have a job for you.” A bright smile greets him as he re-enters the room.Osama serves them tea and hands the warm cup to Peri, smiling thinly. “Those words never mean anything good,” he says.A God's take on traumas, fears, ice cream and the color red.
Relationships: Osama Hayashi & John Beelzebub
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	lay me down, let me drown

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story on Osama and John's relationship. It's a father/son kind of thing but that's all i'm sharing for now. be mindful of the tags and please read the notes at the beginning of each chapter for other warnings not included

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was stress or bloodlust. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** **important** : trigger warning for child trafficking, hallucinations and vomiting. it's not descriptive but be mindful of it while you read

November brings warnings of cold winds. The smell of rain and warm tea pressed against shaking fingers bring a sense of melancholy to the soul as the air fills with the smell of change and death, its red imprints left behind for many to see. Red petals that danced, thin and elegant, outside his home, red offerings left for him to take freely at his shrines and territories, red like the blood that coursed through his very veins. He gives himself a chance to inhale the clean air, let his lungs get filled with red and warmth and the bittersweet smell of rain, then exhales and feels the stretch of a somber smile start on his lips.

Because November reminds him of lonely, withering nights where the owls are his only company, and they bring him gifts of red and gold and blue to compensate for his loneliness; the gold and blue are always so gentle and sweet, cold yet welcoming; the red simply stares up at him, with the spidery petals stretching upwards towards his face, as if beckoning him to move closer and closer until he’s engulfed by it. Until his whole life is just red, red, red. 

Osama sets the red lily down and lets it drown under the giant splashes of tears from the sky, His Highness seeming to be suffering through heartbreak at the moment, so he sends him a gift and he watches the flower reach out to him again with those thin, needle-like petals, then get pulled away by the strength of the running water.

His days are always this lonely, this bittersweet, when he has company yet craves something more in his life, but what’s the point when all of those he’s loved alone had decided they no longer needed him? 

* * *

“I have a job for you.” A bright smile greets him as he re-enters the tea room, carrying a small tray of freshly brewed herbs, the metal clicking softly against the wood as he settles down and pours two cups. It’s raining softly outside, the droplets not bothering to raise their voices higher than necessary at the presence of the trickster demigod, his eyes hidden behind the round, translucent specs he wore proudly. 

Osama finishes serving and hands the warm cup to Peri, smiling thinly. “Those words never mean anything good,” he says. 

The deity hums in amusement, his eyes twinkling behind the rose-gold shades and Osama’s heart, for a moment, stills and quiets to a slow drum instead of a marching stomp. Peri sips his tea and speaks over the brim of the cup, “Have you bloodied your hands lately?”

The rain seems to quiet with their words, settling on a quiet pitter-patter instead of the loud bristling sound of nails scratching against the rooftop of his house, putting Osama in a state of discomfort, having grown used to the loudness of the weather’s tantrums. And maybe it’s due to the discomfort that Osama answers a quiet “yes” before refilling the demigod’s cup with more red, the liquid trickling down without a sound, then letting out a subtle trail of steam from within the ceramic. The tengu has yet to touch his - he knows it’ll be bitter on his tongue, he knows his own brews and how inadequate his own ability to make them taste something different is - he can’t force the red on his tongue to taste something other than vile. He watches the trickster god swallow it in a single gulp, licking their lips in content. 

It is said that those who enjoy bitterness in their life are the sweetest of fools - or so Osama thinks as he takes the empty cup and rises from his seat to possibly throw it away. He excuses himself, his kimono swaying with him gracefully when he turns and makes his way to the very far end of the house, opening the door to a room filled with several other glasses and cups of different sizes, setting down the one in hand on an empty spot before closing the door and returning to the main room. He walks in on Peri taking a long sip of his abandoned red-liquid and he smiles, bitter.

“I have not,” he says as he sits. The demigod’s fox ears flick.

“Have not what?” 

“Bloodied my hands.” 

Peri stares at him, their glasses sliding down to reveal bloody sclera and yellow irises, their features a strange combination of admiration and scepticism before erupting into a bark of a laugh. If Osama strains hard enough he can hear, behind the laughter of a demigod, the sound of countless bodies plummeting down into the cold Atlantic, scratching at the frozen surface of the waters before getting pulled underneath by his demon lord’s hands. The imagery sends a shiver up the tengu’s spine, sharp talons threatening to scrape at the thin layer of skin exposed under his kimono.

After a heartbeat, he says, “I try to not fall back into bad habits.” 

“Yeah? We ought to change that,” the deity muses, taking off the rose-gold specs from their face, laying them down on the table.

Osama smiles and pours him another glass full of red, vindicated. 

“Tell me about the job,” he settles down into his seat, folding his hands on his thighs calmly.

Peri licks into the cup, gulping down the liquid shamelessly, letting it drip from their lips eagerly, his eyes squeezing shut indicating that, finally, the bitterness was starting to sink in, but he quickly recovers and sets the cup down on the table with a quiet thud, reaching behind him into his tails to pull out a small box. “Don’t be mad,” he thrills excitedly as he lays the red-laced gift on the table. “But I need you to kill the receiver.”

Osama’s eyes linger on Peri’s face before they trail down to the red in his hands, his claws carefully resting on either side of the box as they slide it over, the deity retracting his hands quickly as if the object could burn them. Their lips quirk upwards, and suddenly the heat drains from Osama’s face, getting buried under layers of unwanted anxiety, and he takes the gift into his hands and reads the name written on the tag.

_To My Dearest Solstice, Elizabeta Otto._

It takes every ounce of self-control in Osama to not chuck the box at the demigod for laughing at his startled expression.

* * *

Elizabeta is a woman of pride. Her regalness can be traced back down to her late father’s heritage, coming from a line of wealthy people who’ve kept their business afloat by all means necessary, and Osama could have almost admired her if not for the side-business he was informed of. 

The trickster deity’s grin merely grew with every second that passed and it took more force than necessary for Osama to not reach for his sword there and then to take care of the woman. Peri’s little laugh as they handed the gift box back to him pricked at his chest, lips forming something dangerously close to a pout when the deity informed him he would need to be ready to travel within the next hour. How fun. 

It wasn’t every day that a demigod tells him to fly over to Venice for a cup of coffee with a vampire - the mafioso that had greeted him looks tired, red eyes not bothering to meet Osama’s as they exit the hotel the tengu is staying at and head towards a crowded area near a beach, thousands of tourists and locals alike throwing themselves into the water. The sand is powdery white and the sun is glaring down on everything, the few people that they passed by complain about the heat, fanning themselves half heartedly with their hands.

Envy swells up inside his chest and he fiddles with the sleeves of his suit jacket to busy himself.

Maybe it is selfish to believe that a curse bestowed upon him for falling into a frozen ocean is _stupid_ after three hundred years of slumber and then reawakening, having his wings damaged heavily and his heart nearly stopped for doing absolutely nothing to deserve it, whatsoever. Maybe he is just uncomfortable in such a beautiful place, sunny and warm and welcoming, and would much rather kill the woman and get it over with to go back home to his solitude. 

He still doesn’t know much about the woman - though, apparently, she passes through Italy on her way to Germany for business, then pleasure, then home. As skeptical as he was over the information the weather seemed to agree with the guide he was given, taking note of the clear sunny weather in the middle of July, not a single grey cloud in sight. He supposes it’ll do.

It’s not after twenty minutes of walking and waiting and thinking to himself that the vampire - Quibli is his name - speaks up, startling Osama hard enough for him to nearly choke on his coffee. The tengu sputters, thumping his fist against his chest, ignoring the confused (and concerned) stares of the tourists passing them, inhaling sharply as he gathers his posture back up.

“Pardon?” he croaks, trying to take another sip of the beverage.

“I asked if you were hot.” Osama has half a mind to snap back at the man but the mafioso gestures to his outfit instead. He’s wearing a blue vest suit accompanied with a suit jacket, an old gift Peri had given him years ago for certain affairs. Definitely not appropriate for the beach weather.

“Frankly, I’m quite cold,” he sighs. 

They slow down to a stop in front of a coffee shop, the parlor shop nearly full of tourists, all bubbling with excitement to try out the gelatos and pastries and other reasons that Osama can’t quite understand. Quibli offers him a seat at the outside eating tables, the white chair seeming comfortable enough, and Osama takes it, unbuttoning his suit jacket before settling down, one leg swiftly crossing on top of the other. The mafioso takes the other seat. 

“Is it a spell of sorts?” 

“A curse, really.”

A pause. Osama tilts his head to look at the man, watches his eyes slowly blink owlishly as he seems to take the words in. He’s about to explain it all when Quibli hums, seemingly satisfied and relaxes again.

“You trust me with that sort of information?” Osama stares at a passing couple, their child in tow. He watches them huddle closer to each other, travel map in hand, while the girl pauses to gawk at the giant line in front of the coffeeshop, possibly excited or amused at how fancy it looked, and he swallows thickly when she turns to find her parents several feet ahead of her, unaware. She trots over to them, yelling out their names and the yokai turns away from them before he can witness the girl get belittled for straying away from her parents. He raises a single brow at Quibli in question. The mafioso gives a half-hearted shrug. 

“Some people find it easier to not share too much information with others if they wish to live a long life.” 

The look Osama gives Quibli is cold. He stares directly into his eyes and keeps his posture steady even as the wind picks up to disturb the passing people, blowing away hats and picking maps out of their hands quickly before disposing them somewhere else in the area; he’s unbothered and the vampire seems uncomfortable by the end of it. Quibli nods in silent understanding and they both look away, mutually deciding to drop the topic. 

Silence settles over them for a moment, they people-watch. There’s Americans, of course, gushing about how different it was from the States and then their own countries, sputtering in loud spanish as they try the drinks from the tourist stands, grins and smiles on their faces when it’s far better than they expected it to be. He nearly mutters something _crude_ when he takes sight of the children playing not too far from their family’s sight. They’re wild, lively, and booming with so much energy all of Osama’s frustrations seem to wither within the few seconds that they play in front of him. 

He feels someone move. Quibli chuckles seconds later, causing his heart to calm down slowly.

“So,” Osama clears his throat loudly, fixing his jacket that seemed perfectly fine once again. “Tell me about Elizabeta.”

Quibli hums. “What is there to know?”

“Anything useful. Her full name, where she normally stays at, her preferred flower and whether she likes coffee or tea.”

A pause and then, with a smile, Osama adds, “and what her side business is.”

There is a flash of emotion in the vampire’s face, just for a second, a mixture of disgust and pain and shock, but it settles back to a stoic expression, arm resting on the little coffee table between them. His shoulders remain tense. “Peri didn’t tell you?” he tries. 

“I wouldn’t be asking if they did.”

Quibli’s mouth thins into a line. He seems to think it over, turning his head towards one of the passing children. “She owns several establishments in Germany and Austria that sells raw products to cryptids and mortals alike.” 

He chooses his words carefully, eyes flicking to Osama every third word. Elizabeta Rheta Otto stays in Vienna (go figure) throughout her summer work months and travels to Italy for a quick roundabout before returning to Germany for winter work; she claims it’s very much necessary for her to move around so much but why Quibli nor Osama could care enough to discuss; she adores wolfsbane (Osama’s nose scrunched in disappointment at that); she prefers tea over coffee but will gladly pick some freshly brewed vanilla bean mixture up on her way to work and- 

“She traficks newbloods.” 

_Crack._

One of the girls running around falls, landing face first on the stoney path, the rest of the tourists circling around her absentmindedly. She gets to her knees and wipes her face, blood trickling from her nose and getting into the palms of her hands and shortly after she starts to sob her eyes out. Staggering to get to her feet, she calls out for her mom and dad, running blindly into the crowd until a man yanks her towards him. He hisses under his breath and cleans her face, frustrated instead of worried. When they leave Osama’s sight he uncurls his fist, exhaling softly in place of the hiss threatening to come out when the cool air touches the claw marks he’d dug into his palms.

Quibli speaks low when he adds, “You should calm yourself.”

“You should be more worried about whether or not I’m going to stab that immortal idiot.” Osama’s fingers twitch as he grabs either side of the chair’s arm rests, forcing himself to lean back as the clouds move sluggishly. He feels raw rage creeping up the side of his body, digging its fingers into his skin and it’s annoying enough to make him swear quietly.

Quibli hums. “But then you’ll get your wish, right?”

The vampire gets up before Osama has a chance to sink a knife into his throat (fucker), tidying his own shirt and pocketing his hands into his pants. “She’s staying at the Palazzo Cristo. It’s a twenty minute walk.” Even as he walks away Osama hears the quiet remark, a hint of amusement laced into it. “So if you want to put your cutlery into good use I suggest you calm down and follow me.”

Osama blinks, flexing his fingers and wincing quietly as the pain starts to sink in. Right. Palms. He looks back at the small crowded area as Quibli walks away. The girl that had fallen down walks past him. Her eyes are puffy and there’s still blood on her face; his father grips her hand far too tightly for her liking. Osama stares at them for a second too long, pretends as if he’s looking at the white sand getting swept by the waters instead, before standing and following Quibli, hands staying uncurled as he does.

* * *

Drinking the Syrah in his hand is as easy as swallowing water. The taste lingers on his tongue as he gulps it down, rich and bitter and ever present on his mind. The flavors dance on his tongue, swirling in ways that used to make his younger brain spin and laugh on pleasure and giggly ecstasy - now it simply tastes like bitter wine, curling on his stomach, the aftertaste that sits on his tongue is bitter, bitter, bitter red. His lips are stained red when he sets the glass down, heaving a sigh in the empty hotel room. 

The rest of the information was passed to him quickly as they entered the hotel. The young woman that greeted them at the reception gave them a warm smile and Osama had felt the tiniest spark of satisfaction when Quibli started up a conversation with her, her expression slowly becoming more and more terrified as the italian continued with what Osama could assume to be threats, and calmly gives them a room key, telling Osama to have a lovely stay. 

They’d ridden on the elevator, exchanging one or two words about the rest of the mission-

“How long do I have?”

“Until 6 p.m tomorrow.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“Not my problem.”

The doors opened before any blood stained the glass walls and they walked to the room, respectively side by side, and Osama was merely amused when the vampire opened the door for him and told him to “have a drink and relax”. 

The tengu’s amusement lasted until he saw the wine bottle. 

But aside from the stress and muffled annoyance he feels lingering under his skin, he pours himself another glass and swirls it in his hand, the velvet glistening from the bright lights in the room and his eyes follow the sloshing motion of the liquid until his thoughts are clouded with ways of beheading Her Royal Highness without dirtying his sword with the blood. Maybe it was from the past few hundred bodies he’s dismembered for the cannibals he calls his friends, or maybe it was simply bloodlust, he’s not too sure but he hums in satisfaction as he swallows the wine down, letting his lips stain further in red.

After his third drink he gets bored enough to snoop around the room, shedding the jacket from himself and dumping it on the bed, letting out a shiver as the cold digs deeper under his nails as he opens and closes doors, steals the sweets left in a basket labeled “For Guests” and by the time he hears Quibli come back he’s found comfort within the bathtub of the room.

The vampire finds him moments later, eyes blown wide from… shock, was it? Osama can’t really tell. His tongue feels numb and bitter.

“I tried to get you a change of clothes to blend in more-” Osama hears a bag being unzipped behind closed eyelids, lips twitching upwards at the imagery his brain conjures up. “Your cutlery will be very well hidden. It’s a day and night event outfit and - why the hell are you in a _bathtub_!” Quibli scrambles to yank Osama out of the tub and makes no active effort to be careful in the process, pulling Osama to his feet and steadying him.

Quibli’s eyes keep flicking to the side, wide and alert and Osama’s expression falls to that of exasperation. The vampire mutters under his breath as he slides the glass door of the bathtub closed, “How many drinks have you had?” yet doesn’t wait for an answer, placing the outfit in Osama’s hands seconds later.

Osama squints at the vampire. “Why are you so nervous?”

Quibli blinks. Confusion flashes in his eyes then he shakes his head, sighing. “I don’t know,” he answers. Then adds, “It just happened.”

“‘Just happened’.” Osama’s lips curled into a frown. “What could make _you_ nervous?” he murmurs, starting to unbutton his shirt and peel it off himself in place of the newly fresh one, listening to Quibli’s mutters under his breath and clicks his tongue at the language barrier, making a mental note to start taking proper Italian lessons when this is over.

Quibli huffs as Osama slips out of his pants and into the fresh pair, sneaking over to the faucet and letting the water run. “There’s only _one_ thing that could scare me but he’s not here.”

“‘He’”? Osama parrots. 

“Old friend,” Quibli says curtly. 

He stops the running water and dries his hand, adding, “it’s probably just an age thing,” as he turns to do Osama’s tie for him. It’s a silent five seconds of fidgeting and caution, the vampire making sure to not directly touch Osama accidentally, merely brushing his vest and checking if the knives that were given along with the outfit were properly hidden, humming in approval once he steps back. Osama ends up feeling both violated and thankful for the domestic act, fixing his cuff links as he follows Quibli out of the bathroom and into the main room. 

Osama’s shoes tap quietly against the floor before silencing into muffled steps against the carpet outside the room. “Any words of encouragement?”

Quibli’s pace slows down to a walk before stopping in the middle of the hall, seeming to think about the question before turning, anxious smile on his face as he says, “Don’t die.” 

* * *

Tailing Elizabeta is more trouble than it’s worth. The woman trots all over Italy within the span of four hours, tasting every bit of food and trying on every piece of clothing mannequins have on display, leaving them all bare and naked by the end of it, and she has no mercy on the amount of money she’s willing to spend on each and every parlor show within a five mile radius. The tengu keeps his distance and instead spies her from a quaint coffee shop across the street or the single pastry shop above a clothing store, careful not to be seen by either the Austrian or the servant she keeps tied at the hip. At some point, Osama nearly spits out the coffee he’s drinking out of pure disgust when Elizabeta enters a store, exclaiming she’s looking for a dress for her daughter, grinning brightly at the employee that assists her.

“Oh she’s a doll,” she mutters, feeling the fabric of a white dress between her fingers. “And she’s oh-so-sweet! She deserves about several dresses, one for each day of the week, don’t you think?”

The cashier nods in excitement. Whether or not he notices how each and every dress is of different size for different ages, Osama doesn’t know. He ends up throwing the glass into the shop’s walls once Elizabeta is ten feet away, startling the employees and staining the white paint into a bitter brown. 

He ends up apologizing to the shaken barista and pays for the cup, walking past the clothing store unbothered as the manager and employees scramble to cover up the mess.

Stabbing her in public is tempting. The bare thought of letting her choke in her own spit and bile and blood as she struggles to scream out for help is far more pleasant than the dinner he ends up having, the fish too overcooked and under seasoned for his taste - though the woman seems to enjoy her meal with delight, laughing and keeping her composure even as her lips purse in subtle displeasure when her wine doesn’t seem to fit her standards.

He watches her carefully, tracing the rim of his wine glass with his index while Elizabeta drinks and dines and laughs with the rest of her party (Osama’s nose had wrinkled when they entered, the small traces of butterscotch and peppermint giving a hint as to what their business discussion was - though it wasn’t until their entrees arrived that his guess was confirmed, the men seemingly eager to talk about their newest ‘products’ over steak and salmon). 

Elizabeta chews and swallows a bite of the fish, covering her mouth briefly before leaning over and whispering over the low music, “So can you tell me of this new product you’ve gotten from Russia?”

One of the men, Spaniard, sets his glass down and grins back at her, “Beautiful thing. A bit older than our usual breeds,” they pay no mind to the way Osama’s breath hitches at their wording, “but you’ll adore him. He’s gorgeous.”

Elizabeta’s smile widens. “Can’t wait.”

Osama swallows down the entirety of his wine bottle a little bit over ten minutes after it gets served to him but the waitress doesn’t pay much mind to it, instead coming by every now and then to check on his meal and Osama resists the urge to snap at her for blocking his view but she doesn’t deserve it. 

“You seem stressed sir,” she murmurs as she takes away the steak he forced himself to swallow. “Would you like a refill?”

Osama looks up at her, smiling and rests his chin on top of his palms. “Sorry, just, my job seems to be getting the better of me.”

She seems to relax at that, sympathy warming into her expression. “I’m sure it’ll be over soon.”

He smiles and asks for the check minutes before Elizabeta gets up from her seat, satisfied and flushed as she turns at the heel, her entourage behind her, and Osama slips out from his seat, plopping a single sweet on top of the receipt for the waitress to enjoy and follows his target to the other side of the city. 

It’s increasingly frustrating how much he’s stalling to dispose of her, an underlying itch that been nagging him since they exited the hotel and hopped from shop to restaurant to cafe to clothing store to whatever else the fucking city had to offer, and it was all even more of a bother how he couldn’t simply cock his gun, take aim and bust open a hole into her heart since she didn’t seem to be using it to live lately. Grinning and laughing as she purchased shoes and dress wear for her daughters and sons and everyone remained ignorant to her lies. 

Osama follows her back to the hotel and waits until she’s off to the elevator, carrying a bag in each hand with her while the staff take care of the rest, to get the remaining information she needs. As careful as the men handling her things are, they're fickle and weak minded and Osama’s nearly appalled at how easy it is to bump into them and quickly (fakely) apologize and help them fold and put everything back into their bags.

The man he tripped (some ginger boy with dark eyes) smiles at him with fake politeness when Osama offers to help him take it up to the woman’s room and the rejection is at the tip of his tongue but it never comes. As much as he hates the extent of his species’ demeanor, it comes with its advantages, and he hums in delight when the man’s smile softens as he takes in his feature and, just like that, Osama finds himself walking side by side with a lovesick puppy of a man.

He’s merciful enough to not shove him down the stairs near the elevator after getting Elizabeta’s room number and instead kick him into an open closet and lock him there. 

He pauses then unlocks the door. The man’s eyes light up before he gets smacked in the face by the remaining bags of clothes. Osama triple locks it and disposes of the gloves he’s wearing to cleanse himself.

It takes a bit of searching but he eventually finds the hall leading to the woman’s suite, several men already posed at the ready to guard her door. Osama softly inhales then sighs, slowly approaching the hallway, his steps quiet even as he slides from the carpeted floor to pure wood. His pulse quickens despite his steady breaths and, maybe it was the alcohol or the bloodlust finally getting to him but he feels his hands tremble as he digs into the inside of his suit jacket, unsheathing the knife tucked away and—

_CRACK!_

Osama watches as the man stationed in front of him falls to the floor, his eyes bloodshot and leaking with tears he’s _sure_ weren’t there before. His heart skips a beat before his mind starts to work again, trying to decipher this — until the other men start acting out. He watches them bash their heads into the walls, curl into themselves, bite their fingers until they _bleed_ scarlet and Osama’s never been more disturbed in seeing the red of their veins burst open to leak more and more and more. Red, red, red. He can taste the lead in his mouth and he has to mentally scream at himself to calm down as he steps over the unconscious body laying in front of him as he approaches the door to Elizabeta’s room, shaking.

He swallows and places his hand on the handle. It takes a second, maybe two, then he opens the door and finds himself inside the bathroom of her room, the magic leaving him dizzier than usual but he manages, silently closing the door behind him and exhaling deeply.

There are wipes scattered on the hand wash and trash can covered in makeup and washed off lipstick and he waits until the lights are turned off to reopen the door, busying himself with cleaning his knife despite it never getting dirty and steadying his breathing.

Whatever happened outside happened and he just needs to ignore it until this is over. 

All his thoughts are organized, ridiculously inscribed with details from past lives he’s gotten tattooed in his mind, and they stay calm, collected until he takes one step outside of the bathroom and his body feels as if it were submerged under water. Osama tries to speak but he can’t, tongue numb within his mouth; throat knotted with -

He staggers forwards, bracing himself against the wall of the small corridor, leading to the bedroom, and winces the smallest bit as he tastes pure lead pooling in his mouth. He parts his lips slightly and feels red, red, _red_ dripping from his bottom lip, like a small stream and would soon turn into a waterfall of crimson. 

_Bullshit._ It was fucking bullshit. He breathes in harshly, the artificial air within the room tasting that of smoke - burning wood from the forests that were cut down all those - _stop it._ He rakes a hand down his face with more force than necessary, his eyes squeeze shut then blink wide open, burning from the smoke that’s getting into his eyes -

“ _Fuck_ ,” the tengu hisses under his breath which is slowly becoming frantic. There’s a spark of anger underneath the growing anxiousness in his heart that Osama isn’t quite sure to be justified, but he goes with it anyway, pushing through until he’s down to his knees, inches away from Elizabeta’s bed, her body still and peaceful while he feels tears being forced out of his body.

He feels something _touch_ him, slithe fingers pressing into his eyes and pulling out the tears from within, pinching at the cut inside his mouth to make it bleed more, burying themselves into his throat until he can’t handle all the red he’s swallowed throughout the evening and purges it out, coughing and gasping for air. His body feels stuck, only swaying and turning the slightest bit as he tries to get up from the floor, grasping on to the bed sheets in front of him with more strength than he needs and why the _fuck_ couldn’t he breathe? 

The room feels cold. Cold and bitter and there’s red everywhere, why is there red everywhere, why can’t there simply be another color other than red, why can’t his body move, why can’t he breathe, breathe, _breathe_ for fuck’s sake! Why is-

Osama buckles into himself, jabbing his elbows into his gut as his hands cradle his face. He tries to ignore the scattered screams that go on in his head, tries to muffle them out. 

_You’re fine_ , he tells himself. He uncurls his fists and placing his own hands against his face, breathing in and out calmly, trying to ignore the bile pouring from his parted lips. _Breathe. Breathe. Breathe._ He can still feel the fingers dig further into his eyes threatening to scoop them out at any second, like worms burying and gnawing away at the flesh, but he _breathes_. It tastes of burning forests at first, heating his lungs and choking the air out of his throat, but he breathes anyway. 

Osama sits there and breathes until his lungs no longer ache when air fills them; until his heart’s marching beat slows to a quiet drum and then a single, muffled, looping clap; until he can open his eyes and feel them dried and ok, if not hurting a bit. 

A hum breaks him out of his trance and Osama perks up in slight panic, lifting his head up to the source and finding himself staring at Elizabeta herself, her body sitting upright, leaning against-

“Shh.” Osama finds strength in his legs to push himself up from the pool of blood, eyes fixed on the boy (man?) cradling Elizabeta’s head. He’s murmuring a lullaby, running his fingers through her hair like a mother would a child, his own cheek pressing against hers every now and then, as if nuzzling her for comfort. The assassin feels bile build up again in the back of his throat when the man opens his eyes and-

There’s a pause. Green eyes stare at him curiously but the hands never stop, cutting through the strands of hair and pushing down then repeating the process, a weird intimate gesture of affection that makes Osama feel disgusted at the pit of his stomach. The tengu staggers a bit as he takes a step forwards and the man smiles at him, tilting his head to the woman and pressing his cheek against her hair.

The man smiles at Osama and his body freezes up. He brings a scarred finger to his lips and lets out a _shhh_ sound, blinking as if in a daze. Osama’s lips part to - scream? Shout? - but before he can get a word out, Elizabeta starts to curl into herself, shaking and whimpering uncontrollably. 

Green eyes chuckles, grabbing Osama’s attention, and he says, “She’s having a nightmare.” Sweetly, as if none of this was disturbing to him at all. 

Alarm rises within Osama when Elizabeta starts to turn, reaching up to grip on the man’s sleeves, digging her nails into his skin but he remains _unbothered_ by it. He smiles thinly and the woman opens her mouth and _screams._

**Author's Note:**

> Some extra notes for the chapter::
> 
> * Cutlery refers to blades such as knives, swords, daggers, etc
>   
> 
> * The outfit change is mandatory for afterwards its cleaned or burned depending on how bloody it ends up being after a mission
>   
> 
> * Osama's favorite color is red. His least favorite color is also red. It's a love-hate relationship
>   
> 
> * If you spot all the John hints you get a cookie 
>   
> 
> * This is the second tamest chapter of this fic. 


End file.
